Zeltran: Arc 1.1e
CLANG! Yzjdriel snapped awake, instantly on alert. Someone had knocked over the bronze pot he’d balanced precariously on the door to his house, a trick he’d learned from his father IRL. IRL. Would he ever see his father again? He shook his head, refocusing on the sounds coming from the other room. At least two people were rummaging around, paying no mind to the noise they were making. They must have figured that no one was home when no one came to see who’d knocked over the pot. Yzjdriel smirked. Fools: he knew better than to barge out into what was potentially a large party. This was no safe zone: players could very easily die here if they weren’t careful. It wasn’t technically his house; he hadn’t paid for it. The door had been open when he found it, and he’d moved right in. Apparently the owner had gotten herself killed on the front lines and bequeathed the house to the rest of the players; there was no lock on the door, no way to stop anyone from walking in. Yzjdriel wasn’t afraid of Laughing Coffin, even if this floor had been “claimed” by them a few months back. Concentrating, he began Searching for players. Four. All armed, all wearing cloaks. Laughing Coffin. Laughing Coffin, the murder “guild”. These guys had been harassing players almost since the day the game began. Then one day, they started killing. The system didn’t prevent it, which led them to believe all the more fervently it was acceptable. Fools. Everything came at a price. For the four in this house, that price would be paid soon enough. They were going to open the door to this room at some point. When they did, he would be ready. In one smooth, practiced movement, he jumped up, grabbed the doorframe, pulled himself up onto it, and balanced above the door, feet on the doorframe, hands on the ceiling. It didn’t take them long to decide there was nothing of value in the main room. Yzjdriel was always sure to keep all the important things either in his inventory or in the chest under his bed, they key to which was naturally in his inventory. As soon as two of them were in the room, he moved. Dropping down off the door, he landed on the second of the two. In one movement, he had the intruder’s knife pressed against his neck. “Out,” he said, startling the first one, who whipped around to stare at him. “You’re outnumbered, little one,” he said. “I have the knife.” “So does he.” Too late, Yzjdriel noticed the second knife in his prisoner’s hand. The next five seconds were a blur. Blades whistled, men grunted, and Yzjdriel was left standing among three dying players, standing across crossed blades with the fourth. “I did tell you to get out,” he said. At his feet, the three others evaporated. A spark of fear began to show in the other player’s eyes. “I’m going to kill you,” he said weakly. “Then I’ll be just as dead as your three friends made me.” Disarming the fourth intruder was almost easier than killing one of the mobs on Floor 1. Catching the blade, Yzjdriel leveled it at his opponent. “Take off your cloak.” “No.” “Give me your cloak and I’ll let you live.” “More are coming. You won’t survive.” “That’s my problem, not yours. Your cloak. Now.” “Never.” “Have it your way, then.” With a flick of his sword, he lifted the cloak off the other player and sent it flying into the air. The other man was dead before he could reach for it. Catching the cloak as it fell down again, Yzjdriel donned it, collected his belongings from the chest, and teleported to Floor 31. Time to cause some mayhem. Category:Chapter Category:Whizad